I Accidentally Sat On My Son's Pet "Gooey Duck"

Nad Towderfish's Personal Life Journal
Entry #250,987
Barch 2nd, 1993

Crabapple! I've really done it this time. I squished my son's favorite pet. I write this message from the stale, hard freedoms of an American hospital bed at "St. Margret's Blump" Discount Hospital.

This whole mess started after I got home from Ware-Mart. I went there with my wife Judy to buy some plastic containers to hold her growing collection of crotch-clam healing creams. She's got some real foul mossy odors down there. She needs those creams, boy. Oh lord, she needs 'em.

Well, once we got home I put a VHS tape in the tape player. It was a movie called "Cribble's Nanners." It's a funny movie about a couple of men who live in apartments next to each other and throw whipped creme in each other's faces.

When I sat down on my easy chair I realized something was very wrong. I felt a slime covered rod slam deep into by no-no hole. I screamed for my son Gonard to help me. He came running and picked me up and saw the limp body of his beloved Gooey Duck, Humpty Dumpty crushed beneath my bleeding crapchute.

I feel very bad about the death of Humpty Dumpty. He has been in our family for over 16 years. We got him from the pet store when he was only a baby. As an adult he liked to just lounge around the house and watch TV. But now he's dead because of me.

Right now I'm on life support because my no-no hole has been carved up like a jack-o-lanten from Humpty Dumpty's broken shell. My Doctor says there's a pretty high chance that I'll die by tomorrow morning. I just hope that before I die I will get a chance to watch Cribble's Nanners, my favorite movie, one last time.

Perfect girth/width ratio

With the astronomical impact on Diverted Attention Technology that's been tested on the public in a way that is nothing short of ham-fisted, experts entirely motivated by status have discovered that most anything can be converted into a stomach-able variant that is essentially detached and neutralizing from its origin, a euphemism for any unsettling or poopy-fun-hurt information, ideas, words, actions or serious business; someone could die or have to reveal life threatening honesty.

... but did you know that the image of a kitten can distract any living thing from giving a shit? Some of us do, but some of us don't, or not really.

"Corn is in everythang but if mah lil' baby kitteh hot farts gives it a lil' baby bunny nibble, yah ain't gonna sit thur an' tell that we're rewritin' our genetic evolution to ensure that we'll be weak and diseased for the sole purpose of turnin' a buck, cuz Diet History is allotta hooey an' things is convenient cuz we'z clever now an' looki't mah dick" -Jim Pamflip Cussfuck

"My kitten is always curious: It surprised me completely. Now I never vacuum and my dad cut his mouth but it's not getting better" -Gilli Flowdress

"I was sad and I had a lot of things I needed to do to fix my life, but instead of that I found a quick fix: A kitten cutey buns snuggle shits squish squish soft dumpling booger mass star collapse I'm not your real mother." -Gregger Girg

Jews used to be upset about The Holocaust, but resent science trials with control groups and variables (these are science phrases that are the same as regular words but used in a different context) have revealed that when Pork Haters are exposed to pictures of kittens with Hitler mustaches (same as Charlie Chaplin if you are not familiar with Hitler), it is ok. Homosexdudesuckers (I am one of these and I can attest to these statements) who were upset about not being allowed to love someone they trusted and believed in were indifferent towards discriminatory laws, completely lost interest when they were shown a picture of a girl kitteh and a boy kitteh in a wedding dress and tuxedo.

The staff here at Cat's Crotch made a bold and awkward (we've never seen each other in person) maneuver and met at a Denny's and threw cat's at each other's faces. It was kinda fitting because of the title of our Blob.

"Slip that hugskin across my lapslap" -Adamantium jejejejejejeje

"These devil thrashers" -Simmer Mouth

"Let's be real" -tolerated faceless gay staff member

"Just put it in me but don't look in my eyes" -Land the Plane

Two Golden Globes for DMX in "Lockjaw"

America's Number One leading man and greengrass smoker PMX has done it again in his touching debut role as JimJum Snooger, a professional snake petter, and turbo action man in "Lockjaw." Lockjaw tells the simple story of a man from the cornfields (PMX) who loves to pet snakes--until the day the mayor of the cornfields declares that snake petting becomes illegal.



The mayor assigns a special task force to crack down on people who pet snakes. That's when JimJum is forced to take the law into his own hands. He tries to use Hip-Hop Voice technique to scare the force-guards away but it doesn't work. They shoot JimJum in both kneecaps right in the middle of a really, really good snake petting session. Then the guards to the unspeakable. They fatally wound his favorite snake, Shaniqua.

After JimJum crawls to a swamp in pain and brutal agony, he wraps pussywillows and bullfrog slime over his wounds so they can mega-heal. Then he buys a bazooka from the sports store and goes on a one-man battle squad against the Mayor's anti-snake petting task force. There is a huge mega shootout and tons of explosions. Just when it seems like JimJum might lose, a whole pile of snakes roll out of the cornstalks and kill the anti-snake petting task and break the mayor's arm-bone.

As a stunning conclusion, JimJum spares the mayor's life. JimJum helps the mayor to his feet and walks him back to his house. Then he makes him warm bread and they sit on the rug in his living room and share a warm laugh. It's a scene that won't be easily forgotten.

It's no wonder that PMX's touching performance have earned him two golden globes:

-"Best Hip-Hop Actor Alongside CGI Snake Friend"

-"Best Bazooka Fight Scene Involving a Rolling Ball of Snakes"

Sewer Mutant Holiday Celebration

Let's face it. Most land dwellers just don't understand that the lives of sewer people are rich and full of custom and tradition. This holiday season, many of the horribly disfigured and crusty critters from the underground have come together to share some tender moments.

We noticed particular warmth in a gift exchange between a Blood-Sucking Cauliflower Beetle and a Skin Shredder (pictured above). The Blood-Sucking Cauliflower Beetle (also pictured above) came bearing a wrapped box filled to the brim with rat intestines. The Skin Shredder presented a simple gift of jarred blood. They quickly exchanged their gifts and scampered back into their respective homes; the Cauliflower Beetle back under a large slab of concrete and the Skin Shredder into a hot pool of human feces.

On Christmas Eve, we could hear the faint sounds of chanting coming out of various tunnels. Though not all the mutants were singing in the same key, or the same language, they all seemed to be making a similar noise. Some were screeching the words. Some bellowing. And some spilling blood out of various orifices. Through it all, these were the only words we could make out: "We drink red-blood of plump tiny babies--Christmas come but once a year--we eat skin off weak and tender--I hope this year is never ender." It was a sweet little tune with a lovely melody.

Many surface dwellers falsely interpret these songs as a direct threat to humanity, though I prefer to think of them allegorically. I believe the true meaning of the songs can be only be understood by reading between the lines. When they sing about drinking the blood of "plump tiny babies," they are only referring to the child-like spirit they feel during the holidays. And when they sing about gobbling skin, they are only referencing the goosebumps they feel when the Christmas spirit crawls into their loins.

***

Christmas Day it was reported by the "New York Paper" that dozens of sewer creatures poured out of manholes and broke in to "St. Bork's Soft-Skinned Youth Orphanage" on Fifth Street. Orphanage owners reported that the crime was nothing short of a "literal bloodbath" with pieces of children hanging from the ceiling and walls. Over 72 children are feared dead and/or missing.

Father Perish Leader Christ-Man Cardinal Murphy O'Paddy McShulahan O'Clover had this to say: "I can't believe these godless heathens. This is the fifth time this year that they've broke into our Orphanage and eaten all of our children. One of the sewer creatures even stopped to speak to me in the middle of the raid. He explained that he and his sewer brethren would be back in April to devour the new batch of fresh-blood. I wish the city would do something about these vermin!"

When questioned about the sewer people, City Mayor Ham Poundcacke gave a few well-planned thoughts. "This is only a minor roadblock on the road of hunger for today's youth. With so many children starving in other lands, these children are anti-starved. It would be considered that they are not food but actual people. That would be true if they aren't alive. But now that they are gone, many wonder. How did we get here? The truth is, our opposing party vows to raise taxes to benefit these youngbloods. But do we have the money? It's too much to assume that just because we can protect them, that the roadblock on the road to hunger would be increased or reduced. It is only a mere pipe dream to assume that this country could pull itself out of such a twisted tailspin. In conclusion, I would like to extend my thanks to the brave men and women who celebrated Christmas in honor of our lord and sweat-covered rag-dressed savior who hung on the cross so we could bathe in the glory that is America."

Anus-Potboiler Badsmell Inhaler

When I was a boy I loved the feeling I got when my anus puckered and began to boil like a pot of chili. I used to make things called "smoke tents" by getting all the blankets and sheets in my house and basically making a large dome. Then I'd sit in there and eat bricks of cheese and hot piles of beans. Then I'd wait for my first anus-potboiler. Then another. And before I knew it, I was bathing in an ocean of my own badsmell. When I inhaled enough, I began to hear a deep and powerful voice. It introduced itself as Kinglord Brownsmoke Torkington.

More recently, I constructed an outfit from old car tires so I could suck the air from my anus potboilers and become closer with Kinglord Brownsmoke. I told my young son, Hen that I couldn't come to his school play because I would be too busy huffing my brown-fog.

My wife told me to come to my son's baseball game later on but I said I was busy getting a lungfull of dark-wisp. She said that if I didn't come, she'd stop paying all of the bills and rent. So I decided to come to the baseball game. I just sat under the bleachers breathing as deeply as I could as I made loud screaming prayers to Kinglord Brownsmoke. Some of the little league parents began to cry and others got mad. Some called the bluesuit police.

So I ran away into the forest over behind the elementary. Right now, as we speak, I am hiding in a bunch of blackberry bushes scribbling this note with a old back-exit log and a couple of leafs. I think I will try to make a home here among the forest beasts. Perhaps we can create a kingdom of anus potboilers and we can revel in the all-knowing hotsmells of eachother's brown-caverns. And we can sing together in unison as we praise his sweet-savior Kinglord Brownsmoke Torkington.

My only other wish is that my wife and my son stop bothering me to go to stupid things like PTA meetings and sportball cheer-days. I hate all fresh-air breathers and I want to live a life by the code of Kinglords' "hot-smell rip-rear" sermon.

Cartoon Book "Self Respect" World Convention

"I'm Wuffhound from the X-Guys"
-Gorgenhiem Tanner


Every year, the Cartoon Book "Self Respect" World Convention rolls though Troutfish, Wisconsin on the way to it's massive blowout in Tadpole, South Carolina. This year, many people showed up in their favorite cartoon-guy getups. We interviewed one largebody named Gorgenhiem Tanner about his experiences at the event.

First, we asked him what his favorite kind of milk beverage was. He explained that when he was younger, he liked 4% dairy fat supreme but he's recently switched to the buttermilk hotfeast. He says it makes his stomach numb. We noticed he had a one-liter jug of it in his back pocket.

Next, we spoke about his experience meeting cartoon book superlord Lanyard Steel. "I met Lanyard Steel and got my photograph taken with him. I had to make a yellowstream but no one would listen to me. So I went in my Wuffhound pants during the brightflash. I couldn't help it. When Lanyard Steel smelt the smell he looked at me and told he he used to make yellowstreams in his longpants when he was a youngboy. It made me feel better about my special mistake."

Gorgenhiem had some very strong opinions on his mom and dad's minivan. He explained that when his mom comes and picks him up, he will have to find her light blue Road Dome X-Press. "I told my mom to drive to the back of the parking lot to pick me up. I told her that I am going to have a playdate with my friend Daisy and I don't want her to meet my mom. Daisy is only 15 but she acts like a grown up."

"Blazing Skull" Female Cotton Rods

MARKETING PITCH:

Do you have blood-runs every so often? Are you a female woman?

Well stay tuned for this important announcement from BLAZING SKULL.

BLAZING SKULL, INC. has brought you many great products in the past. But we've noticed something about hygiene products nowadays. How come men get all the good ones? Men get "Chainsaw Body Mist" "Cinnamon-Beaf Dunk Deodorant" "Coleslaw Ball Powder" and "Mountain Bike X-Treme Masturbation Fluid." But what do women get?

Nothing so far.

Just lame products like "Daisy's Pussy Creme" and "Light Morning Sunflower slamrods."

Well things are changing.

Now there's Blazing Skull female cotton rods for your nad curtains. If you have drip drops at times, you want something in there, right? And you want something that's just as cool as what the boys get, right? Well good! Now you can change the world.

And be a female power figure with your friends. Our cotton rods have pictures of a skull on fire and some tribe markings--so you can feel the power of the most intense things that come out of the mists of your imagination. That way, when you have runny runny rivers, you can dam it up with a force of pure impact and human power!

Be yourself! Be the style you want to see in other people! With Blazing Skull Female Cotton Rods. By BLAZING SKULL, INC.

"Mad Dog Rage: Is There A Cure?" by Dr. Roncho Paynus

Every week, readers send in their questions for Dr. Roncho Paynus. This week Dr. Paynus answers questions about the "Mad Dog Rage" ailment affecting many pooches and terriers around the Tallywhacker County area.

Q: Dr. Paynus, I believe my neighbor's dog Bundt is very ill with Mad Dog Rage. Last week alone, I saw him tear the hide of twelve young boys in my local housing sector.
-Nickel-Nord Humdug

A: I believe you should feed one large slab of riverfish to the pup and while he's snarfing, insert a large calcium pill deep into his rectum.

Q: Dr. Paynus, my dog may have a case of Mad Dog Rage. I saw him tear into a box of cereal and eat all the innards. They were White Iced Frosted Bits for Youngmouths. Do you think my dog is a deadly force?
-Hootletoot Mustard-Seed

A: Yes, your dog is a death demon. Mad Dog Rage has taken his soul and his spirit to live a good life. You must destroy him by throwing him into a furnace or into the deepest pit you know of.

Q: Dr. Paynus, my aunt's dog ate his own tail for breakfast and crawled up onto the ceiling. Now he's just making low snarling noises from right next to the chandelier and he's vomiting blood from his eyeballs. Do you think he's possessed with Mad Dog Rage?
-Mug-Tug Portherhouse

A: No, there is very little chance of that. I'd say your house was built over some sort of spiritual force field or anti-gravity vortex for dogs. Contact your local rock shaman or peanut witch finger to see if they know.

Jorge the Lonely Creekwalker

"I mostly just come here to mingle with the toads and to bottle up some sludge along the creek bank. And to smoke PCP."
-Jorge

HERE IS A DRAMATIC RE-INTERPRETATION OF THE JORGE THE LONELY CREEKWALKER STORY:


I used to be a smile-faced man. Long ago, before a had a whoopsie inside my brain. I will tell you the story: I was once a normal man. With a hat. And a pet dog. And 40 dollars. I found a woman I wanted to marry. Her name was Filbert St. Jude. I met her on the sidewalk in front of my adult living facility. I saw her in the bushes and I told her I loved her. Then we got married in the treefort in a person's backyard who I don't know. I made a tuxedo out of an animal hide that I got from a golden retriever who lived in my neighbor's back yard. And I made Filbert a wedding dress out of a few boughs of pine. It was a beautiful wedding.

Later that night, I tried to bring Filbert back into my adult living facility but Master Krugnuck said "No way, you can't bring that tramp in here." So I let her go outside. For six months she lived outside my window in the bark dust. I made her a little fort out of a few pieces of Styrofoam and a garbage bag. When it turned into rainy season, I couldn't find Filbert St. Jude anywhere. I ran outside in the rain looking for her but it was hard to see anything. Water was everywhere and all the landscaping was flooded. THen I found Filbert in a stream in the road headed toward the sewer. I grabbed her up just before she fell into the drain. Then I got hit by a bus, because I was standing in front of the bus stop.

When I woke up in the hospital, my brain-doctor friendly-man Boop St. Augustine was standing over me. He told me "Jorge, we found you in the street with the mangled corpse of an elderly squirrel in your hand. Why is this, Jorge?"

I didn't know how to answer that question. I just pulled the blankets up over my head and started sobbing to Jesus to kill Boop St. Augustine for making my brain hurt. From under the covers, I could hear Boop talking with the nurse, saying: "We have witnesses saying they say Jorge up in a young boy's tree-fort having some sort of ceremony with an elderly, North American tree-squirrel."

It was then I realized... a warlock must have made Filbert St. Jude turn into a squirrel. That's when I decided to run away to become the Lonely Creekwalker. The way I saw it, if I walked long enough in creeks, Filbert St. Jude's spirit might come back to me. If she died in a creek, she may be resurrected in a creek. Either that or the PCP I smoke is affecting my judgment.

When Muffs Cry

"Google does not exist."
-Printz

That's right cucksnufflers, my long unfortunate absence can be wholly attributed to this mustache wielding, feather fried puss-snagger, Printz.

He told me that "the internet is dead", and I took the sweaty, crooning dickheart at his word. Believe me, I never would have listened to this puffy shirted Minnestotan in a million years, had a certain internet shit shower not been recently rained/reigned upon my being:


Do you see that skullfuckery? Google straight don't exist SON. Tall dwarves on NBA salaries make more sense to me than this. Don't worry though, I'll get to the bottom of this spudge, and be back on the Cat's Crotch prowl sooner than you can say "Rim dim diggle, rim dim dim diggle". That is, once I pull sexy Printz's mustache out of my "must stash" (which is what I call my vagina =D)! What? you thought I wasn't rocking a sex change operation since my absence? Come on n-words, It's 2010 and you're living in the two-thousand den (OF NOT BEING UP TO DATE)! Stupid slizzy nerds...


haha, I'm totally jking, I love all the ladies no duhhh! =P=P=P=P=P!!!!

Doop Mouth

Greg Jenkins' Family Journal
5/7/1998

I'm cousins with Doop Mouth. He's such a grumm-duckus. He came to my daughter's birthday and just sat there Dropping Brown Pound into one of her gift bags. When my daughter came up to say "hi" to him he just snarled like a forest wolf and told her to "back off." It was a really upsetting situation. I'm writing in this journal to vent my Red-Faced Mega-Rage.

My cousin Doop Mouth was born of bad blood. His parents were toilet addicts. The used to dip him in hot Grouch-Pam and turn him upside down late at night. Then when he was a toddler, when their family was visiting the city's municipal hazardous waste center, Doop Mouth crawled off the edge of the railing into the brown river. Eight years later, he was found on the embankment of the Mork River, slurping mud and snarling at passers-by.

By the time State Services took him in, it was far too late. He was a bonafide barf-sleeze, coughing and wheezing out browned-columns everywhere. Even during sacred events like church, you could always hear him in the back pew launching out a dark missile onto the polished marble floor.

He was once taken aside by Bishop St. Poppins for a private conversation. The Bishop tired to plead with Doop Mouth to find solace in the bosom of the White Robed One but he said "No" and a fountain of nasty sauce came spilling out of his mouth all over the sacred robes.

Dr. Beehive Furhand's Woodbeast Battle Gym

Some may laugh at the sight of a grown main engaging in hand to hand combat with a massive Furbody. But to Hangsack Tootlebeans, a native of You-Tah, combat with a Grizzled Bear is "a good way to spend a Tuesday night."

"Yeah, I've been taking Bear Karate lessons from Dr. Furhands for about two years now. I don't remember much of what he taught me. He usually just growls and snarls until someone brings him a pot of honey. But don't get me wrong, I've learned a lot."
-Hangsack Tootlebeans

It was Dr. Furhand's grandfather, "Ol'" Woodsap Furhand, who opened You-Tah state's first Woodbeast Battle Gym at the turn of the century (1900). Since then, the Firhand family has passed on it's powerful hand-to-hand combat skills to generations of humans and small kids.

We've recently attained some testimonials from customers of the Woodbeast Battle Gym and Bear Karate Centers of the United States:

"I dropped off my son Filbert at a late-night one-on-one training course for youngboys. When I came back to pick him up, Mr. Furhand said he hadn't seen my son come in. What struck me as suspicious was that Dr. Furhand was covered from head to toe in what he claims was raspberry jam. But I suspect it was strawberry jam. Either way, my son is still missing and I'm not sure where to look. It's been six years. I recommend Dr. Beehive Furhand's Woodbeast Battle Gym to anyone who wants the best for their kids."
-Whort Foghammer

"I decided to get my wife Starburst a season pass for Women's Self-Defense courses at the Woodbeast Battle Gym for Christ Day. After her first lesson with Dr. Furhand, she didn't speak a word to me. She just walked in the front door and packed up all of her belongings and left me for good. I got a letter in the mail ten years later (Written on a piece of timber) that said she was very good at Bear Karate now and that her and Dr. Beehive have many, many small Bear/Human hybrid children. During that ten years, I spent many late nights in an empty bathtub, sobbing uncontrollably. I wondered each night if I would finally have the courage to slice open my wrists with the Gillette Mach 3 that taunted me from the corner of the room. I would call my mother for support but she would never answer. It turns out she moved away with my Dad after Starburst and I split. She said the pain of Starburst leaving was just too much for them to handle. A year after Starburst left me I was diagnosed with a level three case of Rup Rup Rup, and now I can't walk on my own. I use a vehicle that I've designed from discarded hunks of watermelon rind and pineapple to scoot my useless body across my apartment floor so I can once again contemplate suicide each night. After my tenth year of being without Starburst, I finally went through with my suicide attempt and now I live at the St. Mork's home for People Who Try To Kill Themselves. When I finally received the letter from Starburst (the one written on the log) I felt my already loose grip on sanity weaken to the point of total loss of control. All of my internal organs slip and relax and a large pile of Rolling Hotballs came out of my pantleg. I also made a spray at the same time. It was terrible. Since then, my doctor said I've been making significant progress. He says one day, perhaps I'll be well enough to walk the snowy meadows of St. Hubbinsberg, the home of my birth. It's where I want to go to die, when the Rup Rup Rup finally comes to claim my tired soul."
-Hibbert St. Garfield

Old Fud-Duds Reuinte for Pinkwad Chew Off

"I love pinkwads. When we were kids we used to hop on top of an old dung heap out near a pile of garbage and filth and talk about our dreams and chew pinkwad."
-Shup Nutdut

During the annual Pinkwad Chew Off, Shup Nutdut, a lifelong pinkwad slammer, got more than he bargained for. Not only did he get a mouthful of pink sugar chew, he ran into his childhood best friend, Put Bumtear.

"Oh, shucks. Shup and I were best friends. We used to go on long walks through the municipal sewer facility and look for pieces of pinkwad in between floating browns and hunk-dunks. Then we'd chew them all day long and laugh about how bad we smelt. Then we'd go home and our parents would beat us because they said we smelled like plorp-sploosh."
-Putt Bumtear

It took a few seconds for Shup and Putt to recognize eachother, but once they did, they exchanged bodily rubs and they traded pinkwads as a display of their affection. As in traditional gumwad chewing techniques, Shup and Pup got on their knees and made three chews to Gum Lord Sir Albatross Sugartooth and prayed for the religion of Pinkwad to find a home in the Sugarcastles of the sky, far beyond the clouds. After their prayer, the two friends went home and had a dinner of two 32oz pinkwad steaks and a couple of glasses of slom-dush.

As a symbol of the freedom in their hearts and and as a representation for their love and faith of Pinkwad religion, Putt and Shup have dedicated a memorial plaque to their memories of childhood pinkwad slampdown adventures with this passage from the pinkwad bible.

"He who cheweth pinkwad will surely benefit from the sugar. And he who cheweth pinkwad will feel the spirit in his loin. He who feel the spirit in his loin is a good man and a brethren of the chew. He will find his home in the sweet, sugary bosom of Gum Lord Sir Albatross Sugartooth in the kingdom of Gum Rain, where all good spirits doeth go upon final croak. My children of the chew are welcome to sample different flavors of pinkwad as long as they don't combine flavors. Blub-Dub flavor hath not be combined with Gorgon-Hosh-Tosh nor shall Nad-Dad Humtuss be combined with O-Cram-Cram. Be wise with your choosings and be weary of eating solid food. Solid food will send you away from the spirit and away from the Sugarlord."

-Cham-Hower Chew, Verse 8, Chapter 2

San Rafieli's Meatball Parmesan "Italian Fun Guy" Knowledge Institution

Are you looking for THE BEST higher learning institution in the immediate area?

Well, look no further than San Rafieli's Meatball Parmesan "Italian Fun Guy" Knowledge Institution. Founded in 2007, the school focuses it's curriculum on Italian Dressing Pouring, Olive Seed Removal, Talking Louder Than Most Other People In the Room, And Buying Cars That Are Faster Than Most Other People's Cars. Other majors include Best Methods of Pulling Up Your Shirt To Reveal Your Six Pack Abs, Sniffing for Hot Slizz, and How To Hide Cocaine Inside of Lasagna.

Mr. San Rafieli, the owner of the the learning facility, spoke with us about his achievements and those of his student body.

"I felt like my wet-haired pizza kids weren't getting no smarts from these big city hotshots. I wanted to give them knowledge from the old country. Knowledge like I learned from Pizza Hut, back when I started out there in 2006."

"Ravioli Joey is a good kid. He got the honor roll for spiking his hair up higher than the other kids. I like to bust his chops a little bit but he's a good kid. He wears the baggiest jeans. Hell, his jeans are so baggy I saw him put 18 shotguns down one pant leg and blast a hole in his dorm floor on a Saturday night lasagna jam. There was just some shithead down there ramming his hardstick with pizza sauce. He was like 'Ey, keep it down up there, would ya?'"

"Next year we're gonna offer classes like
-Domino's Pizza Eating,
-Having A Good Time,
-Mozerella Stick Arrangement,
-and Hair Gel Palm Spreading."

Celebrity Fundraiser: Meatskin Flesh-Column Slam-Down

Heavybody celebrity "big-time guy" Vinse Von held a celebrity auction last Friday to see how many hot pink sticks he could jam down his gullet.

"This auction goes to celebrate the lives who have been lived in remembrance of hotsticks. People that lived out loud and weren't afraid to be a Maverick and eat a meatlog. People that never asked for a cent from the Federal Meatskin Flesh-Column Association for assistance in their purchases."
-Vinse "the Beef Whisperer" Von

Mr. Von ate approximately seventeen dogs before he began to sweat and wheeze and whisper insinuative comments towards some young people. He made a few final comments before league officials forcably took the mike-rah-fone away:

"I hate hotmeat and I hate all of you. I asked for mild, Italian inner flesh inside of my meatskin but you guys gave me original flavor. I can't believe I ever said I stand beside the Federal Meatskin Flesh-Column Association. Those guys have no idea how to fill my hunger sack."

After the event, Mr. Von began to act unruly, grabbing the male narrator by his lower hair and having a go at him. Many people in the audience waiting for the auction to start began to cry and sob aloud.

"I thought this was an auction to benefit the victims of Hot Muscle Fouler. It was advertised as a charitable event but we just sat around and watched this great time instead. I'm okay with it. I like the Vinse Von movie Santee Claus." -Poul Bowndown

"I brought my two children to this event thinking it was a charity. It wanted them to see all the good that was in the world. Instead, they got this. This wonderful time. Thank you." -Neeter Pumperpuss

Vinse Von's spokesman, Tooter Brownsmoke later commented on behalf of Mr. Von. "My client believes he likes Meatskin Flesh-Columns. What he doesn't understand is why the inner hunks were less than savory for his lips and his gullet. My client has a certain level of standards for hotflesh and he knows he was made a fool by the Federal Meatskin Flesh-Column Association of America and the Federal Government."

Discover a new way to pemp your jigger

Tired of the daily hopscotch with your nork? Had enough of trying to find time to rort your nanner and hairmound? Sick of your friends always making fun of you because you lock yourself inside of your sweat-chamber for hours and come out with a look of disgrace and humility?

My sole question: are you not performing well at pemping your jigger?

My friends, I have the solution: Read my new binded-page collection, entitled "A Whole New Way to Pemp Your Jigger" by me, Tam Pumphouse.

In my book, I discuss the ancient "Run-Tun-Dun" method of wamming on your sillyrod at six to midnight.

You get all the information you need on every available technique, from the "Bump-Bump Bangrod" to the "Deep Forest Brush Grush" and the mysterious Yang-Tang Torkus."

And I don't shy away from important topics like what happens when your special-gal comes in and sees you looking at yourself in the mirror and going ham-ham-ham on a Tuesday night. What a stress!

But most importantly, I discuss the true spirituality associated with gruubing your man-nail. HOW is it done? WHY is it done? FOR HOW LONG? And will the Astro-Lord care?

For all the answers and more... buy "A Whole New Way to Pemp Your Jigger" at your local binded-page purchasing facility.

Be sure to visit these fine locations on your money-spending adventures:

-Borlock's Page Ripper
-Soup Forskin's Page Eyeballers
-Bowell's Pooks
-Beefhunk Bill's Brucker's n' Boogs
-Sports Books International Slam-Dunk Reader's Association

Mega Brothers: Bed Boys

"My brother Jorgon likes to ram a clothcord up inside of my rip-canyon."
-Enord Ponkhoggle

Jorgon and Enord, the fun-guys behind the local-access-wire television show "Mega Brothers: Bed Boys" are known in the Southwest Lower Smazwad County as the premiere teen-aged bed pranksters. Legendary social critic and fun-guy enthusiast Shim Tightwad once said that the Ponkhoggler brothers were "the most important thing ever to happen to the bed-prank/good-times community."

For those of you who haven't seen Mega Brothers: Bed Boys, every week is a new adventure in foolers and goofs. The Ponkhoggle brothers think up a new round of sillies to pull on one another within the confines of their undersized bunked bed. On last week's episode, Enord carved a hole up into Jorgon's bunk and pulled his underpants off at 4am. The week before that Jorgon popped all his pimples down onto Enord while he did a snumble-snooze. Next week's episode will feature a guest appearance by none other than Porkball legend Gary Sheepsblood. Gary vows to channel his "sports strength" to fold the Ponkhoggler brothers' bunkbed into a massive wooden taco and throw it out the second story window onto their parents front lawn WITH THE BED BOYS CRAMMED INSIDE.

Stay tuned!

***

Critical reviews of Mega Brothers: Bed Boys (from around the SW Lower Smazwad County area):

"Jorgon and Enord have hand-crafted a piece of genuine art that casts a dark and murky shadow over every other thing in my life, including my wife and kids."
-Shim Tightwad, the Smazwad Grumbus

"At first, I thought this was just another show about kids in bed. Then I learned about all the pranks and honkers that go on after midnight. That's when it really got my attention!"
-Rigger Manhole, the Daily Hork

"My favorite episode was when Jorgon did a top-bunk bedflip into the wall and bonked his noggin. It woke Enord up at 3am! Hilarious!"
-Fud-Fud Figgle, the Pinkle Tuesday Express

Pear and Biscuit!

Looks like Biscuit is having trouble with his publicist again. Pear, on the other paw, seems alright today.

Disgraced Woodbat Legend Addicted to Rough Dirtslides

It was announced today that disgraced Woodbat Player and Ballhammer-Swinger Pooter Warmcabbage checked into Dripping Forehead Sexual Rehabilitation Center in St. Peter's Wood, George-Uh.

It was noted that throughout his career and home life, Pooter spent most of his days swimming in dirt and filth, and tilling the soil with his pam-pam.

Pooter's third ex-wife remembers a scene: "I remember coming home from the grocery store and seeing Pooter in the backyard in a pile of rubbish thrusting his ooger into a mound of dead leaves. When he saw me in the window, he just got up and pretended he was doing yardwork."

Pooter's sixteenth ex-wife remembers another painful scene: "After our first week of marriage, I caught Pooter shoving handfulls of farm dust down the front of his trousers. He was grunting and growling and calling out to the 'Spirit of Filth.'  It was awful."

We also spoke to Pooter's mother, who had some insight into Pooter's career as a Ballhammer-Swinger: "I remember when Pooter was little, he used to say he wanted to be a dirt-man when he grew up. I used to say 'Honey, there's no such thing as a dirt-man.' I used to tell him if he liked dirt, he could be a grave digger, a construction worker, or a Woodbat World-Star Beefhunk. Naturally, he chose the latter option."

Pooter's descent into public depravity came to a bulbous head in the Summer of 1976 when he pulled out his jammer during a game and stuck it deep into the earth while doing a belly-skid into third pad. He screamed out in wild ecstasy. Then, seconds later, he appeared to come back to reality. Pooter then sulked back into the man-bunker in shame as thousands of fans cried and screamed to Jesus' name in mercy.

The next day his coach expelled him from the team, claiming that "Woodbat is for Jesus-Men. Not Dirt-Boys. Not fucking Dirt-Boys."

Since then, it has been said by friends and colleagues that Pooter would make a habit of taking off his body cloths and swim around like a hungry serpent or a redworm in river banks and cemeteries, looking for the softest spot to sink his hamrod.

Now, 20 years after his expulsion from Woodbat World-Star Beefhunk Champion-Game, we've caught up with Pooter Warmcabbage and asked him for comment.

"I'm going through a rough time right now. My life-coach says I have to stay away from moist, hot landscaping. They put electric razor chains across the soft-dirt garden outside my window. I think I'm going to slit the guards throat tonight and try to escape from this place."

No Cookie Law Angers Red-Eyed Demons

Pro-cookie demons have shot out of earth’s crust—snarling and barking—in protest of an anti-cookie law recently enacted to keep local hunger-beasts away from community cookie storage facilities.

Hulking pork-tummies, pure hunger-beasts, pooch-bellies and Rum-tum-tums recently staged a raid on Famous Amos’ Cookie Water Tower, which held 10,000 Gallons of raw, chemically untreated cookie dough.

The PCLF (Peoples Cookie Liberation Front) Led by female-demon Barkdust Riptooth and male head-lord demon Blop Buttercream recruited dozens of followers over the past weeks.


Pictured: Barkdust Riptooth


Pictured: Blop Buttercream


Armed with flaming spatulas and poisoned oven-mits, the angry mob descended on the unprepared employees of Famous Amos’ “Fun-Guy’s Good Time Palace” and mercilessly slaughtered every last man, woman, and senior-level manager.

The group then proceeded to climb the cookie dough water tower, where they—through sheer force of will—and extreme carb consumption—toppled the tower. The group members and demons then gnawed down several dozen trees with their teeth, setting them ablaze around the water tower, cooking the 10,000 gallons of dough, creating one massive cookie.

By the time the National Guard arrived, the PCLF had already devoured the cookie and returned to their base in the lava tunnels in the bowels of the earth. Main military guys say the shit's going to hit the fan during Christmas season, when the main cookie rush begins.

"We've stationed our most elite cookie-defense troops and religious baptists near all major cookie outlets all over God's sweet America. We've got machine gun guys stationed in front of Buttercream Ned's Sugar-Disc Sellers, Beeter's Round-Hound Exchange, and Globular Hot-Dough Item Distributors of America. So when the hunger-demons surface--we'll be ready for 'em."

-Admiral Turbo Beefgrain

Camp Self-Worth Homeless Poets Fellowship WINNERS

NAME: Drippy-Nose Wolfbaum
ENTRY: "My Nose, it Drips" 1st Place

My Nose, it Drips
by Drippy-Nose Wolfbaum

My Nose
It Drips
Upon My Nips
My Naked Nips

It Touches My Lips
It Touches My Hips
It Breaks My Heart
It Makes Me Fart




NAME: Professor Soda-Pop
ENTRY: "I Love Soda-Pop" 2nd Place

I Love Soda Pop
by Professor Soda-Pop

I feel like a man
With a bubble can
A bubble can
A bubble can

Sometimes I pee inside my can
Inside my can
Inside my can

And tell my friend Henry
It's a fresh lemon fizzer
A fresh lemon fizzer
A fresh lemon fizzer

And then Henry drinks it
And says "this isn't a lemon fizzer"
"this is just some of your urine"

And I say
"Yes, it is just some of my urine"
And then we go to bed
Inside of some garbage



NAME: Dr. Crab-Helmet
ENTRY: "I Blasted My Pants" Honorable Mention

I blasted my pants
On Saturday night
On the way to Banana Peel Theatre

I had a date with Esmeralda Wolfhair
But I blasted my pants
And I was filled with despair

I shouldn't have eaten that
Smoked salmon and egg nog
It made me slam my trousers

With a hot pot of juice
From my grumbling guts

Young Hungerbeast Reigns Supreme

A young Hungerbeast was chosen to replace long-time Grand Champion Hungerlord Sir. Hotbeef Redsauce as the presiding Chow-Slammer of the Universe. Every 10,000 years, the current Grand Champion Hungerlord must choose an apprentice.

This year, a small Beefmaster named Ham-Hock Steamroller was chosen at a McDarnalds chowhouse in Cole Slaw, Road Eyeland. The current Grand Champion Hungerlord floated down to earth on a geyser made of hot turkey gravy and landed in the McDarnalds parking lot, where he made a large beef-fart. Many people vomited from the hellfire stench.

The Grand Champion entered McDarnalds through the south doors and he ordered a HotMan 2000 and a basket of Potato Rods. He sat down across from young Ham-Hock and observed him during his slam-feast. After the meal, the Grand Master passed his medallion onto his successor.

The young Ham-Hock Steamroller gave a short, but spirited acceptance speech.

"I accept this medallion in honor of my father Warm-Pork, who passed away while trying to roast a full-grown Giraffe over a large fire pit in the bowels of Africa. Thank you former Grand Champion Hotbeef. I promise to uphold the values of Chow-Slammer of the Universe by eating Hog Gravy, Lard Bricks, Beef Hunks, and Whole Burds. Thank you, Lord."

Bon-Bon Bumpenheimer's Pet Universe: Christian X-Mas Warmskin Newbodies

Attention Bun-Bun shoppers!

We have a whole new catalog of Sports Pets, Moistened Floppers, and Soothing Warmskins as gift ideas for holiday glory-time. Just in time to give your small-bodies the surprise of a lifetime! What's better than having little Hambone wake up Christian X-Mas morning to find a birth-moistened Gruncher waiting for him under the festive death bush? Nothing. Nothing is better than that. Except for maybe a wet-mouthed Toggert to greet your fresh-babies. Or a hot-blooded Dick-Skin Cattywumpus to make your little-hearts feel real nice. Read on to learn more about our new soft-breathers...



TOGGERT
$3.99

These bud-duds are easy to care for. Just make fresh warm oatmeal in the morning and pour it on your Toggert's lips. He will swallow it and groach and huggle--all to the delight of your youngkids. Toggert will love you forever. Toggert lives 48 hours.



DICK-SKIN CATTYWUMPUS
$7.99

Dick-Skin Cattywumpi are a child's favorite friend. Kids love running their fingers over the dips and raggles to find hidden hun-duns and little caverns. Dick-Skin Cattywumpi usually eat microwaved color crayons (preferably yellow) and old slippers. When you're choosing the right kind of slippers to feed your Dick-Skin Cattywumpus, try to find the oldest slippers around. Look for signs of excessive decay and sweat damage. If you can get a hold of athlete's slippers or the slippers of a long-dead person, your Dick-Skin Cattywumpus will love you forever.



GRUNCHER
$4.49

Everyone knows Grunchers are the most intelligent critter in the animal kingdom. Every 75 years, blue whales blast a Gruncher out of their "blast-hole" onto dry land. Scientists and math teachers have no idea how this is possible. Lucky for consumers like you, a recent Gruncher birthpile was found off the coast of Nevada, near the arctic sea. There were thousands of Grunchers waiting to be claimed. I, Bon-Bun Bumpenheimer, was the first one to the scene. We used our fleet of Chevy Celebrities to round up the critters in fishing nets. Then we towed them home on the Interstate. Now they're available just in time for Christian X-Mas.

The Throat House

Let's be true-faced with one another. Everyone loves swallowtube surgery! Even my crab-apple Aunt Croak. It's the funnest procedure anyone could ever wish for. You get to lay like a hotdog in a warmbun for hours while man hands and silver-sticks go inside of your gizzard. It's like having a fun-time exploration of a wet-cave like back when you were a young-whisker.

It's true... I didn't have black-balls in my neck. Nor did I have any kind of white-smoke disease. I just wanted to have some fun-tyme surgery. So I went to a place around the corner from my Dad's trailer. It's called "The Throat House." It's a good old fashioned fun-palace if I might say so.

The first thing they did is ask me how much money I wanted to spend on neck-cuts. I said about nine hundred cashpounds. Then the owner, Dr. Poark Hamglaze came out with a burlap sack to take my money. After that... they took me in the back put a gigglemask over my mouth to make me sweet-headed then I laid down like a hotdog.

The experience was a grum-dugger! I smiled a tooth exposure-face for Dr. Hamglaze the whole time! He was laughing at me and he kept calling me "Tube Jim" even though my name is Henry Thomas. It was terrible. I hated it.

After all the fun, I got to walk around in a flower-robe and meet all of the other Throat House patients. I met a kind-man named Rimshot Gorgonheim who had is bulsa exposed to a wild Grook. Then I met a young-boy by the name of Boober Wetcliffe who showed me his throat wound. It looked like a sour-apple after a wormfeast! After that I met the woman who would become my wife, Schroeder Junkhole. She was just like me. She had some extra greendollars to throw around so she got her gagger slashed just for the kick! We connected right away and signed up for second surgeries. I'm going in next week to have the right side of my asparagus boinker gnawed on by a razor-claw. She's going to see if Dr. Hamglaze can make a custom rip on her cough-bone. I can't wait!

Uncle Dad = My Best Friend

WET-BUSH ELEMENTARY SCHOOL
11-17-1993

"MY BEST FRIEND"
by Porridge Sandwichmeat, 5th Grade

After school I hate to watch Sally Nevada on Disnee Channel. I just go over to my friend Uncle Dad's house. He lives a few blocks away. We like to watch big-boy movies and play with bar-bells. He is my best friend.

Last year, my REAL dad and I went to the park to play on the playground. My dad said he was going to go get a foam-chugger at the smell house. When the sun went down I started crying. I was so scared because he never came back. That's when I met my best friend and my new rad-dad. He was standing under a streetlight wearing a long-coat. He said "don't worry, I'll help you." I asked him what his name was and he said "uncle dad."

HERE IS A PICTURE OF "UNCLE DAD" WINNING THE BEEF-HAM MALE WET-BODY CHAMPION-SHIP:



Ever since then we've been best hud-duds. After school, we go sit in his steam-box and go slippery-doodle in his hotpool. We even watch his Laser-Discs: Bengo Groark, Soft-spot Underpants, Slip-n-Slyde Boyz, Moist Friday, Beef-Muscle Mack, and Veiny Vinny.

Uncle dad likes to make me hot-plate warm-meals and set them on my jeans for dinner. He makes me Rot-Tot-Tots, Nicken Chuggets, Brownsauce Meat, Hot Cow Innards, and Chinese Boilers.

He even made me a special birthday cake with big-boy bar-bells all over it! Uncle dad says one day my bar-bell will look just like this:



THE END.

1997 Consumer Report: Werewolf Insurance

The Werewolf Insurance craze has officially swept the nation. Nervous shiver-bodies and spooked Henrys from coast to coast have rushed to Rip-Jip's Centennial Ghost, Spook and Wolf-Bite Preventive Insurance Centers of Southern America to purchase the "Lifetime Gold Hound Dog and Wolf-hound No-Bite Plan."

Ever since a Werewolf busted into the White House last Hugtember and tried to sniff the President's asshole, people have been concerned about their own corntubes. The number of "Hound Dog and Wolf-hound No-Bite Plans" have risen from 4,000 warmbodies in 1992 to 75,000 in this fine year 1997.

Customers from all demographics have began to feel the tremble of fear deep down in their grape-sacks and nard-holsters. Last year alone, Werewolf attacks tripled in American nursing homes. Over 2 million shrivel-bodies were completely devoured in their sleeping chambers by hungry wolf-dogs and blood-snarfers.

We spoke with an old-fashioned grey-afro long-boob about her terrifying experience with a Red-eyed Hunger-beast.

"I was in my bed watching an episode of Nadlock Whoopie-Cushions on Grey-hair TV and I heard a growl or a snarl outside of my window. I got out of bed to look outside and a Wolf-beast lunged inside my living quarters. I thought it was going to eat my old body but it kept sniffing my legs. Eventually, I realized it was smelling my catheter. It began to grown and it ripped the catheter off my leg and snarfed all the hot dunnerds inside. It was terrible."

We spoke to a man from Easter-Christmas FunVille Nursing Facility for Sag-Faces in East Carolina about his experience with a Night-Hound.

"I was inside of my bathroom trying to make a brown-pile in my smell-vat when I heard a wolf-howl outside of my door. I said 'who's there' but no one answered. So I got off the stink-bowl and moved toward the door with my pants around my ankles. I opened the door up just a crack and saw a 12 foot Werewolf going through my collection of Matlock tapes on VHS. I screamed at him to get away from my tapes but he saw me and barged into the bathroom and ate all of my browncream out of the smell-tank. I have never felt so violated."

At Consumer Reports, it is our Sky-Lord appointed duty to inform you of grave incidents such as the ones you have just heard. We strongly advise any shriveled humans or weak-hearts to buy the "Hound Dog and Wolf-hound No-Bite Plans." The silver plan includes a 6-Month No-Bite guarantee while the Gold plan ensures a full 7-Months of No-Bites plus a full turd-replacement promise. So whenever a Hungry-Beast gobbles one of your brownlogs, Rip-Jip's Centennial Ghost, Spook and Wolf-Bite Preventive Insurance Centers of Southern America promises to replace every ounce of smell-log lost.

Bolster Groach Gets a Hungry Man Feast From His Mom

On his 36th Birthday, Lawnmower Engineer Bolster Groach received a special present from his Mother. A Hungry Man feast. His mother explains:

"My son Bolster lives out in the garage behind our house. He makes his money fixing grassblades and weedhackers for Jork Bunsniffer down the street. Bolster is a gentle warmspirit and we're proud to have him as our bigboy. When he's not working on lawnparts he usually pets the neighbor kids inside of his room fort. For his 36th Birthday we decided to get him a warm-meal to put inside of his fleshsack."

We caught up with Bolster to get his side of the story. It seems he was in the middle of giving a warmpet to a smallboy who lived next door so we came back the next day to interview him. This is what he had to say:

"I love my brownharied mother. She is a sweet sugarangel. I never left home because I don't know how to hold my torker when I sprinkle. For my birthday this year she got me the Hungry Man Boneyard Boontussle Brogers with a side of Nashed Tugglers and Hot Sploosh."

Small-Faced Tim Celebrates His Last Birthday

It's the end of the life-tunnel it seems for a miniature tenderflesh named Tim from Horseapple, a small town out near Nardsville.

Friends and relatives have gathered for Small-Faced Tim's "death feast" where he was able to choose all of his favorite treats to enjoy one last time.

"My Dippy says I'm going to Darkville so he let me pick out my favorite sugartuts. I choose a Choco-Horkus, a Groak, a Bapple Cider Fuckus, and a Rigumtort Slophouse. For desert we're having Plowdog Chili-Hunger and Boon-Chunk Rungers."
-Small-Faced Tim

Small-Faced Tim came down with a terrible case of Boondoggler's Frown last Barch when he grumpled into a patch of Friar Friar Fucks. Small-Faced Tim is just a littleman so his immune system wasn't able to fight off the terrible blow of poison bullshit that came from the plant. According to Nadshrinker Medical Journal, there is no known cure for Boondoggler's Frown at this time. Most white-jacket wearing medical doctors call it a "stupid idiot's disease" and don't like to "fuck around with it."

Small-Faced Tim's Dippy made some comment's on his son's sugar chowdown:

"My son Small-Faced Tim loves sweet sugar. I bought him a Rustler Cap like the real pistolboys used to wear. We've been trying to tell him that Darkville is a great place for littleboys and there are lots of nicemen there to make him feel like a strongarm."
-Regular-Faced Fenton Corkscrew

Salute insult dead people that died while building it

50% of stoic patriots will agree that Wasted Agility, the new one guy competition that's turning us on like Cammy in Street Fighter is pounding down all other televised pantomiming conflict head-to-head Gimmetheballs.

Kime Castraggit, native of FuckFaggots Missouri, bellyflipped across the states to Unknown Deepwater #1 and back again, hands on the wheel but no really. Everyone is growing strong muscles for a gander at his patented Crystal Sun Helix Asunder Ganon impersonation.
Kime Castraggit aka "Perfect Sex"

Other Wasted Agility competitors, such as Grease Puffleshit, Andasitor Touch, Eyeknife Wayne and Justice Mirror stand tall as the leading jesters in this game of evading doing anything remotely constructive with their life on bluespin. They dominate and kids emulate them with burning effigies and WalMart purchases. Catch them every other night on CNN just before Slow Talk.

Jick Magger crosses the line.

Jick Magger, lead jaw-turner for the band Stolling Rones has officially made a hork-wuffer of himself onstage.

On Rogtember 32nd, the Stolling Rones were playing a gig at the Rochester Eggsucker Stadium. In the middle of the song "Mawtucket Mary," Jick Magger hopped offstage and began wrapping his gaping mouth around the heads of infants in the audience. A woman in the front row was holding her twins and was surprised to see Mr. Magger stretch his massive red liver lips around both of her infants heads, one at a time of course.

"I was so shocked I dropped both of my babies and ran for an exit. Later that day I was like 'where are my babies?' I went back into the Stadium after the show to look for them and I found them squashed flat underneath a couple of seats next to a pile of popcorn. I decided to just pick up the small pile of popcorn and take that home instead."
-Tornup Swigger

Towards the end of the show, Jick Magger strutted back on stage and began to look for more things to wrap his large trap around. He found a few more babies backstage that his tour manger had stashed for him. Rumor has it that he put the entire babies heads in his mouth in order to absorb the proteins from the soft spot on the back of the skull.

Porkflesh Male Human Competition Event

IN MEMORY OF DEAR UNCLE GORKY. #1 PORKFLESH BALL-ARM POTATO CHIP CRAMMER.

Notice to all of my Porkflesh Ballsport Smyle-Faces: You guys already know that the yearly Porkflesh Hammerdown is happening this Sunday night. The Donahue Pie Eaters are playing the Nard Town Ruckers. It's gonna be a great ovalball cocksmash.

We've been having this event ever since 1982, when my Uncle Gorky was still young and vibrant. Boy could he catch a Porkflesh! Just look at the above picture. The had the coordination of a blood panther and the eyes of a baldhead ee-gull.

We are serving a bowl of SaltRounds for you hungrymouths. But everyone needs to pitch in. My wife Teresa Smelltrout bought a bag of Caribbean Flavored SaltRounds but now we don't have anymore money. I prayed to my Uncle Gorky to send down spirt powers so we could get more money for more chips but it didn't work. So we only have enough for each person at the party to have one half of a handfull of SaltRounds.

Also, if someone has a TV and Pay-Per-Peek, we need those things too. We don't have a TV or a coffee table. Or a couch.

Ghost of Mervyns Rises From Dead to Taunt Loyal Sears Customers

Customers at the Double Brown Shopping Center fled in terror from a specter Mervyns Department Store that appeared in a flash of fog and lightning and began to taunt loyal Sears customers. Witnesses say that the store, which went bankrupt and got demolished in 1991, materialized in the Sears parking lot.

We asked some of the witnesses to comment:

"My wife Bork and I have shopped at Sears since we got our first goldcoins. This is where we buy all of her bodyrags and beefed-up shoulderpads. When we pulled into the parking lot today, we saw a demon Mervyns floating two feet off the ground hollering obscenities a bunch of prunefaces. It was awful"
-Mart Plowbog, 32

"My best friend Pennywallet and I come to Sears every Saturday to check on the Kitty Sweaters. But today that damn Mervyns ghost store scared Pennywallet so bad that she lost control of her bowels and made a brownsplash in the parking lot. We had to take the bus all the way back home to Shady Bung Retirement Fort so she could change her crapchute."
-Horky Cumberbun, 91

"I have to walk through Sears to get to my favorite stores like Smoker's Palace and Card Trader's Bungalow. When I saw the ghost I dropped my greennugget smoking tube on the concrete and it broke. Now I have to ask my aunt Greubler for another glass bubble torker."
-Dun Cripp, 17

Marshed Mellows to become illegal in She-Caughgo?

I recently acquired this document from the Bureau of Marshed Mellow Management, She-Caughgo, Ill-Inoise. This illustrates the reasons Kong-Wress-Man Jump Stackhouse plans to ban them from burnholes and flavorspots citywide.

PAGE 1:
Last year, my daughter Norpus had a terrible accident with a Marshed Mallow. She began the snarf procedure but got some wetted-chunks crammed inside of her swallowtubes. She began to snarl and hack but my wife and I were watching the William Kosbee program on television upstairs. We heard strange noises but we didn't realize she was having a chokedown. When we came back down, we saw that her life had vanished.

PAGE 2:
The next day my wife and I took my daughter's body to a Medically Certified Marshed Mellow Witch Doctor and Food Enchanter.

For those willing to fact check me, his name was Popcorn Jenkins, MW and his business is on the corner of Hobbyhorse Highway and Bumpus Way in Southtown.



Mr. Jenkins used a confectionery glaze, made solely of Marshed Mallows to bring her withered spirit back to life. It worked. For payment, he requested 13 small bags of Marshed Mellows be delivered to his home over the next three years. It was an installment plan he and my Marshed Mallow Accountant, Bhurt Schnooter, had devised over the touch tone fone (whose knobs and buttons were sticky from excessive exposure to Marshed Mellows).

PAGE 3:
Now my daughter Norpus has successfully started the city's first "Women's Anti-Marshed Mallow League." They hurl Marshed Mallows at tinybabies and wrinkleskins, anyone who scowls at her while she pickets the Marshed Mellow factories.

Page 4:
I hearby recommend that all members of the Sweet-Savor district of She-Caughgo ban the flavortasting and smush-handling of any of these wretched foodstuffs.

Richard Attenborough's Aged Cider

QUOTE FROM PRESS CONFERENCE REGARDING RICHARD ATTENBOROUGH'S AGED CIDER:

"Welcome to Jurassic Pa-heh...I mean... Welcome to my aged cider."

-Sir Richard Attenborough

The news of Richard Attenborough's Aged Cider has already reached most major media outlets. To many, this is a cause for celebration-a night of rubbing hotspots and torking on warmhandles-but for others a day of shock. Today, the news has been been released of a dark double life of the popular actor/naturalist/non-flosser.

Authorites in Liverspotshire, Pumpittt, London have discovered a bevy of lude and moistened photographs of downtrodden middle-aged women hidden in the flossless bathroom cupboards of the Attenborough estate. Yes, it is true. Sir Attenborough, best known to Americans as Rad Dad Richard Hammond from Jurassic Park, is a youngflesh taster known in rumpus circles as "Rude Rude Rick." Though, traditionally, youngflesh is considered young women between the ages of 13-21, Rude Rude Rick's preference is a bit older.

It has been discovered that in between shooting films like "Long Talks On Shrubbery" and "Clean Clean Countertops," Sir Attenborough has been walking the dark streets of Liverspotshire on the hunt for the gooeyducks of jobless middle aged women. It's been noted that he often proposes warm-robbins in exchange for goldcoins. In fact, it seems that many famous London showpeople already know about Sir Attenborough's dirty habits.

Here's what some of them have to say:

"I knew that old fruit was a hamgrabber. I saw him looking up my wife's rugumtorts during my son's holy head dunk."
-Greggorie Dougersnout, Film Director

"In between shoots on the set of 'Clean Clean Countertops' I saw Richard patting the palm of his hand on his wigwam and breathing like an old chimney fireplace. He was staring directly at my chowderbowl. It was absolutely bonkers."
-Moihira Drippingsfield, Actress

"Please somebody put that old yellow haystack behind bars. I saw him having bumpers with a girl named Margaret-Bet-Bet after he paid her two gold coins when she lost her job as the hairstylist for Goit Nanner."
-Pord Illingrath, Stunt Trainer to the Elderly on "Jurassic Park 6: John Hammond's Revenge"

It remains unclear whether or not this hubble-hobbing will ruin Rude Rude Rick's career.

Check back for more news on this anus-breaking story.

Pear and Bisquit

Biscuit really isn't gay. Really.

Spruse Bringsteen: Tightjean Funwalk "AMERICAN TOOLBELT" Universal Tromp

Choadslist Posting # 35678923R

TICKETS FOR SALE: (NOT FAKE) Spruse Bringsteen and the Saturday Night Guys: Tightjean Funwalk "AMERICAN TOOLBELT" Universal Tromp 2009

Bottom line: My Dad died of grumpus and rup rup rup so I can't make it to the Spruse Bringsteen show at the Soft BrownFort Universal Aquarium. This whole situation makes me sagmouthed but what can I do? I guess all I can do is moneychange these smokey busters! HAR HAR HAR! To be honest, I feel like a clophorse in a burning redshack. My whiteyes are moistened for my underground dirt dad.

My Uncle Bundpt and Rodjod are going to drive me up to Fell-he-Delpheeya for the funeral foodfeast. There'll be scarftables and slop cups. My old Dad loved to eat goose grenades and hotspot tooigers--so there'll be a lot of those I can assure you! He loved drinks like softbeef coffee and gentle glidedown gulpers--so those'll be there too.

Anyway, the price per ticket is $$1,0000.000. It's an banghole of a wet deal. If you have a chunky beefwallet full of hot beefcash than you can afford a steamdeal like this one.

Call my electro-portable talky tone at (233) 233-2333. Ask for Whipple. Sourghum Whipple.


Thanks for your longpeeps, goodfellows.

SW + Ghost Dad

Restaurant Origins: Ruth's Chris Steak House

Ruth-Zot Mummersfeld was born in 1904 to a wealthy slaving family. Though slaving was made "officially" illegal after the Civil War, the Mummersfeld family continued to capture slaves. On weekdays, Mr. Mummersfeld would to go out to the grassy plains and hunt live humans. These were usually drifters and traveling men. He used a hunting rifle to incapacitate them but he never shot to kill. He only shot to mame. He usually aimed for the walking devices or bendy bumps. Mr. Mummersfeld even brought Ruth along for a trip every so often, to show her the ropes.

The Ruth's Chris Steak House story officially began when Ruth captured her first human slave in the summer of 1920. The man was a lonely traveller/planewalker/gunny-sack man with a haired face. She shot him 14 times in the legs and named him "Chris" after he collapsed in agony. She decided on the name "Chris" because the man was screaming "Christ" but, since he was in such excruciating pain, it sounded more like "Chris."

Ruth took a quick liking to the man. Instead of making Chris a "Full-on, Hard-on" slave, she decided to use him as a cook in the family kitchen. Chris would cook Ruth "browned man slices" and "boylogna" made from Mr. Mummersfeld's retired slaves.

As time wore on, Chris became the "head slave" in the family household and was allowed to eat bread, instead of his own steaming turds, for supper. Late at night, Ruth would crawl into Chris' cabin, whip him with a bullslapper and sexually bump him. It was an affair than continued unnoticed for decades.

In 1930, Ruth used Chris' man slice recipe to open her own restaurant, Ruth's Chris Steak House. Since then, it has grown to become a national fun-tyme romper of a chowhouse. Though they don't make browned-human meals anymore, it's still a good hungryshed. Try the bloodsteak and smush dirtrounds.

Ruth is now 106 years old but still bumps nads with Chris every night.